Visuals
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. A series of oneshots exploring the more visual side of CB because sometimes a girl needs a visual. From "Is that our sex tape?" to "You don't like that anymore?".
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **For the anonymous prompt of "sex tapes" I received on tumblr. This might be the first fic where I mention a movie without actually seeing it so creative license and all that, okay? Set in Season One during the week between the wedding and the trip to Tuscany.

* * *

The amber colored liquid pours smoothly into the glass, releases that taunting aroma that calls his name in an enticement for him to partake. The thirst he normally feels is sated yet the action gives him something to do, something to concentrate on while he waits for her to return to him, to his bed. The familiar strain of music emanates from his laptop, plays over and over again in that endless loop until someone finally presses play.

Her exit from his bathroom is seen out of the corner of his eye, but even still he knows exactly how she looks – negligee that brushes across her thighs, hair returned to its pristine condition, and all traces of him replaced by that distinct smell of her. Except some of the traces remain because swollen lips and a glow that makes other men sit up and take notice are much harder to wipe away.

She slides back into his bed, slides his laptop across her lap and press play because she's impatient to start the movie and, besides, he's seen it before.

(To which he would reply that so has she, but that is neither here nor there.)

He works on fixing a drink for her as the movie begins, works on crafting the perfect martini because he is out of Dom and she looks she could use one. Of course, she'll take a sip of his scotch when she think he's not looking because to the world she is champagne and vodka, but with him she can be scotch and darkness, too. But he freezes as he debates between shaken or stirred, freezes when he hears moans rather dialogue.

He expects her to yell, to scream at him for the indecency of mixing up _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ with _Breakfast in Tiffany's_. Yet the moans continue to reverberate about the room, and he cautiously peeks his head around the corner to look at her. Her mouth is parted, her eyes have darkened, and her fingers are twitching against her stomach in that yearning to touch and stroke he knows so well.

It doesn't matter that he cannot see the images on the screen, that he can only hear the action playing out for her, because he grows hard as he watches her. Harder still as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. One final moan, one final scream punctuates their silence, but she pauses the film so abruptly that he meets her eyes with a kind of bewildered expression because why would now be the moment to decide enough is enough?

"Is that what I look like?"

His brows furrow and raise in a question of what exactly she is asking. She seems almost annoyed, peeved that he does not understand her, and she spins the laptop around to show him the screen in freeze frame. The woman who looks nothing like Audrey, nothing like Holly has thrown her head back; her mouth hanging open in a wide 'O'. And the whole thing looks about as fake as the Prada shoes they spotted Penelope wearing today.

"Is that what I look like?"

"No," he replies with the shake of his head, with the forthrightness of truth. But the simplicity of his answer is not enough for her, not enough to sedate her curiosity, and she presses him for an elaborate. "I don't know. You're just different."

"Different," she repeats, closing the lid to the laptop and sliding it off her lap. The tone in her voice adds a reflection, adds hesitation and worry that conveys just how wounded she feels by his choice of adjective.

"Different isn't bad," he assures her when she starts to shift from his bed, when he slides in beside her and holds her hand in his to make her stay. "I just…you look…amazing."

"Amazing," she echoes but he can tell that she doesn't quite believe him, that she doesn't know what to do with that particular adjective. The hand holding hers flips it over, flips it until her palm is up and he can trace the letters of his meaning on the sensitive skin of her wrist. Her eyes fall to watch him, and he wants for that involuntary shiver to come before he speaks.

"I bet that movie made you wet."

"Chuck!" She shrieks and he chuckles because her indignant air is not from his statement but from that fact that they both know he's right. "It – it did not."

"No?" He questions, shifting just a little bit closer to that his breath tickles against her ear as he speaks. His fingers continue to trace across her wrist, continue to tease her as she clamps her thighs together. "Then why don't you show me?"

His free hand moves to the hem of her negligee; his fingers slipping under to tease and trace against the skin of her right thigh. She clamps even tighter as he shifts around her, as he arranges his body around hers so that her back is to his front and her ass is pressed to his groin. The fingers tracing against her wrist move to sweep her hair away from her neck so as to create access to the part of her that brings him to his knees.

She shivers at the contact, shivers at the fever rapidly consuming her. And all the while he continues to whisper words in that low, dark tone that beckons to her. Words about how she's wet and wanton and won't she just come for him until her thighs part and his fingers slip to find her.

He chuckles darkly at the lack of contact with her panties, at the way she drips and slides against his fingers. She sucks in a tight breath and has to lean back against him, has to grip the muscles of his thighs as the pleasures of his hands and fingers and lips on her naked skin sweeps through her again. Skilled fingers press and caress as his other hand frees her breast from the confines of her negligee. Shapes and panders until her whole body is aching and swollen, firm and sensitive to every seductive touch.

She gasps and squirms against him; her eyelids falling and clamping at the contact. His lips detach from her neck for just a moment, for just long enough to trace the curve of her ear.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "The mirror – look."

With an exorbitant amount of effort, she raises her lids, looks across the room to the long mirror in the corner, and sees what he sees. Flushed cheeks, legs parted, hair messed, and fingers caressing her pink flesh, strumming her pink nipple as soft light spills over them and as her breath catches at the image.

She raises her gaze in the mirror to search his face, to watch him watch her as he caresses and worships her body openly without disgust. Every touch, every brush of his fingers across her taunt skin felt like a testament, a prayer, an appreciation of the wild passion she keeps simmering below and longs to let free.

She's never seen herself in this position before, never understood why he is always so eager to press her hips against the seat of the limo and feast when it only brings her pleasure. But the way their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror makes it obvious why he is always so eager, why he worships her body so. Because no one else can hear or respond to, appreciate or share the fire inside her as he does.

"I don't…" she stammers out, and he tears his eyes away from the reflection of her in the mirror to admire the real thing splayed out before him.

"Want this?" His fingers slip closer and closer to that bundle of nerves strumming for attention. She closes her eyes on a hiss of pleasure, and he murmurs appreciatively in her ear. "Don't lie. You do."

His voice is a dark rumble in her ear. His touch is flagrantly possessive as he shifts against her, as he applies sudden pressure that makes her gasp and her eyes fly open once more to stare in the mirror.

"Do you know that one thing I – I admire about you is how you respond? To every touch, every brush of skin, every caress."

He demonstrates once more, and her shameless body proves him right. Her hips lifting off the bed. Her mouth opening to release a strangled gasp. Her body becoming wetter and wetter with every touch, every word.

"Yes, that," he says, and his breath just another caress of her skin as his fingers play with her breast. "But it's not just your body that responds, but you – you want with me, you join with me, you come for me."

His fingers stroke the curls at the apex of her thighs once more and then move past, sliding along the swollen folds as he watches her face in the mirror. His fingers slick with her arousal, he slides one inside and lightly probes. She shudders and closes her eyes, feels his lips against her temple and his breath against her cheek.

"And that's why it's different," he replies. Between her thighs, his fingers probe; at her breast, his fingers squeeze. At her ear, his voice deepens and roughens as she gasps and moves against him. "That's why it's amazing."

The deep rumble of his words hold her on the edge of the cliff, hold in that heated moment long enough to show her herself through his eyes. A revelation that makes her ache, that makes her want with a need she's felt before but only now understood, only now saw for what it is. Her passion, her fire buried deep inside her is nothing to be disgusted over or reviled, is meant to be joined and stroked and fueled with fascination.

Her body stats to coil, to tighten, but she needs more, needs the physical joining to understand and appreciate the connection and his fascination with her. As if he heard her thoughts, his stroking eases and slows as he asks in a voice gravelly with desire.

"Do you want me inside you?"

"Yes," she hisses as her eyes dart across the room to meet his in the mirror. His hands leave her abruptly as he nudges her forward, urges her onto her knees. Her negligee falls to cover her, to obscure her vision of herself in the mirror as he reaches for the drawer of the nightstand, reaches in and extracts a condom from the box stored there.

And then his hands return to her waist to steady her, to move her once again as he angles them to the mirror. Turning her head, she watches as he pulls her negligee up over her hips, as his hands make contact with her bare ass, as his thumbs and palms caress and worship for a moment. Still engrossed, still staring at her, he reaches blindly for the button and the zipper of his pants. Two flicks of his wrist and his erection springs free.

He tears open the condom wrapper and slips it on with expert precision before one hand grasps himself and the other grasps her waist. Her eyes widen and she watches in the mirror as he guides himself towards her, as the blunt head parts her slick, throbbing flesh. And then she watches his face as his lids fall, as he slowly eases his way inside her. There's something different about way he looks, something kind of… amazing about it.

But she loses that thought when she loses her breath with a gasp, when he falls back on his heels and drags her with him. When the passion she's held back rises within her, roars as she clamps around him and embraces him and her eyelids fall. For one instant, he holds still with his thighs to the back of her legs, with his face etched with passion as he demands she look in the mirror once more.

And then she moves against him, speeding them onward and launching them off the cliff until he is left gasping and groaning in her ear. She doesn't moan or scream the way the woman in the film did and the way she looks in the mirror is different, but the power of the knowledge coursing inside her about how amazingly different she is causes her to reject all comparisons. Instead, she focuses on the wave of bliss, on the way her lungs fight to find air, causing her to nearly miss the invitation spoken in a whisper that caresses her ear.

"Come to Tuscany with me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **I've decided to expand this into a series of oneshots exploring the more visual side to Blair and Chuck's relationship because there was a time before Season Four when Chuck learned that Blair liked the possibility of someone seeing.

* * *

Strong yet tender fingers curl about her jaw; his distracting lips return to hers to press and part and leave swollen with need. Strong yet tender fingers trail down her neck leaving heated skin cooling at the loss of contract; his lips detaching from hers to trail after his fingers and stroke the fire below. Tongue swirling around her collarbone; fingers swirling around her nipple through the silk fabric of her blouse. And his name tumbles off her lip in a whimper; the only time the Queen willingly and wantonly begs for her consort's attention.

A smug grin – one she can feel against her skin even though she cannot see it – spreads across his lips. She shifts against him, and her legs move to encircle around his waist to hold him in place, to drag him towards her. Yet he continues his slow, languished strokes pulling out just quickly enough to move his hips out of her grasp so her ankles do not have enough time to cross and sinking back in just slowly enough that she can feel every inch of him, feel every licking flame of the fire spreading through every nerve in her body.

"I can't."

His smug grin is replaced by a knowing smirk because her whimpered words are a lie. Because he has held her right here – tightly coiled, begging for release – so many times that they both know all she can do is let go. Throw herself headlong into her release one more time until she shivers with an actual fever.

"Now you and I both know that's not true."

His words are a deep, throaty chuckle against her collarbone. His lips ghosting over her neck and jawline to find and connect with her lips; his hands moving from her breasts to her hips to hold her still, to hold her off and tease her for just a little while longer. All actions that ignore the glare in her eyes in favor of the flutter of her eyelids as he sinks back in with tantalizing control. The gasp of pleasure cascading off swollen lips only to lapped up by his lips greedily pressing against hers, by his tongue sweeping in to duel with hers again.

"Just one more time, ba—"

"Mister Bass?"

The hot, white flames coursing through every nerve ending in his body are chased away. The boundary of his focus widening to encompass the stream of bright light spreading as the door opens. Hands about her hips push her backwards to hold her against the wall and hold them both in the safety of the darkness. His name is repeated once again as his secretary pushes open the door a little wider, as she takes a step into the empty conference room.

And Chuck is about to lift his head from where it is pressed against her neck – hot breaths tickling her skin – to call out for Joan to leave them now in a harsh, forbidding tone. But the slick, wet warmth tightening around him gives him pause and causes him to lift his head and catch the glint in her eye as her hips rock forward to meet his stilled ones. The promise that Joan will be paid for her silence should she step any further into the room, should she turn her gaze just a little bit more to the left and see her boss and his girlfriend in _flagrante_is burned away by the return of the white flame. By the constricting of her heat so that it engulfs and enflames and sends his nose nuzzling against the heated skin of her cheek as his lips search out her ear.

"My, my," he chuckles darkly against her ear as she shifts against him, as she tightens around him again. "So naughty?"

Her response to his question is to drop her head to his chest and nuzzle her nose against the throbbing vain in his neck – hot breaths tickling his skin – as her eyes slide over his shoulder to watch. Her left hand locks on his shoulder while her right slides to his throat and upwards to scratch through his hair as she watches the door shut behind the retreating form of his secretary. Her eyes roll to the back; the whites bright in the darkness as his teeth scrap against her earlobe, as his hips flex forward, as his right hand slides between her legs to touch and stroke the raging fire.

Her response to his question is felt with his fingers, felt between her silky thighs and swollen lips. A hot wetness that coats his digits and makes him burn with thirst and impedes rather than aids in his languished, teasing movements for she is wet and warm and tightening and turning the tables so he is the one who is going mad with wanting, who is lit afire.

"But someone might see."

A teasing protest she knows is fake for his satisfaction is felt in how he traces, explores, fondles, and caresses. His satisfaction known and repeated in how he loves to offer up opportunities for her exhibitionist side to shine and how he loves to see her in her rawest and freest form. And the fingers of her left hand curl around his shoulder digging in until a ripple of pain shoots over his back, until his voice becomes a gravelly rumble of sincere protest in her ear.

"Blair!"

"If you tell me we have to wait, I'll scream."

She thinks for a moment that she will have to drag open her eyelids and affix the withering yet sadly underused glare of a monarch on him or that she will have to somehow take matters into her own hand. But past experience has taught her that the prospect of a kind of punishment he likes is probably his end goal because he enjoys offering her just a taste before he consumes his favorite dessert. And, besides, their position extends no courtesies so that she must rely on him – irritatingly arrogant chuckle and all – to finally give her what she wants.

"You better believe you will."

Finally filling her and stretching her completely only to pause just long enough that her head turns on his shoulder and her gaze slides up to meet his. Brown eyes holding darkened eyes as he slides inch by slow inch to fulfillment; a fierce battle to keep his focus on her given the slick, scalding heat enclosing around him and threatening to turn them both to ash and cinder.

Every muscle clinching and flexing in greedy anticipation as his hands slide to support her weight so she can take control, so she can rise up and down and control every movement with a wicked grin that hints at how the contraction of her muscles aren't entirely reflexive. Not like the fingers sinking deep and desperately against her skin.

The rise of voices outside the shut door is unable to distract him, to divert his attention from the overwhelming tactile sensations he is experiencing. But her gaze focuses past his head and shoulders and her eyes roll to the back of her head once more as the door is opened just slightly, as the voices become less muffled. The interrupter shutting the door when he or she is informed Joan already looked there; the sound of the shutting door just loud enough to muffle her purr of satisfaction and cry of completion.

And his head turns – nose brushing against her cheek – to find her lips, to swallow her sounds for they are theirs and theirs alone. The tide of her release like a spark to his own; his shattering cry muted by their kiss. A small, delighted smile curving both of their lips as she collapses against him and he closes his arms about her as her head lulls from where their lips are joined to the wall behind her to finally rest against his shoulder.

The warm weight of her slumped around him felt in the arms cradling her, in the way she still pulses with heat around him. Eventually, with soft feathery kiss or two to his neck and one or two to her shoulder, they slide apart. His hand reaching out to support her as she finds her balance and straightens her skirt; her hand reaching out to straighten his collar and retie his bowtie only to curl around and yank at his smug words.

"I didn't realize your love of burlesque extended to more…revealing activities. If I had known, I could have made Victorla into a less high-class strip jo—"

"Not another word, Bass."

"Oh, no," he agrees as his hands slide around her waist, as his fingers splay and press and caress until she shivers under his touch once more. Teasing and stroking the fire below with that equally arrogant, appreciative, and eager smirk returns to his lips. "I'd hate to give our location away. Someone might see."


End file.
